The Season of November
by Nothing Really Specific
Summary: The Pevensies, Caspian X, Reepicheep and Trufflehunter interrogate a psychopath accused of murder who claims to be a demon. Mystery/Drama/Suspense/Dark Humor T: Mild Language
1. Chapter 1

**The Season of November**

"Even death has a heart."

-Markus Zusak, _The Book Thief_

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**Chapter One: The First Interview with Peter Pevensie**

_The Cair Paravel Library _

A library is such a dismal place to have an interview in. Mostly because you can't read anything, you can't look at anything, you can't touch anything, all you do is sit and complain about how miserable your life is. Well, at least, that was my first impression when Peter Pevensie walked in holding a book of absolutely little or no significance to the conversation that we were about to have. I noticed that he wore a brown vest and matching coat as if he were already a professor of law or even worse, a lawyer. His hair was neat, his face was clean and his posture was defined and mature something that I appreciated considering his age of seventeen.

"Can you tell me about yourself?" Peter asked, sitting down in the chair across from me.

Certainly Mister Pevensie. I can tell you everything there is to know about me from my birth to my escapades as a youth to my expulsion from home to the very incident that brought me here to this very room in this very chair. I can even tell you how many pieces of hair there are in the entire universe but that would simply be a waste of your invaluable time.

"It would be." Peter said. "I do not care for stories of useless information at the moment. Now, tell me something- anything that comes to mind."

The night of November 13th 1937 was the night that Mister Nathaniel Baker of New York died of a heart attack. It wasn't necessarily a shock. The old man of seventy-three came from a long line of methamphetamine abusers so to say that his death was a surprise would be an understatement but to say that he was beloved was an overstatement. Generally hated and despised by the populace of the Bronx, Nathaniel Baker was anything but kind and sensible and if you were around at the time you'd feel somewhat psychopathic. As one gentleman pointed out:

_"It was like being a murderer. I felt spontaneously happy and succumbed with joy and youthful optimism."_

Youthful optimism wasn't even close to the sensation I was feeling. If that gentlemen were spontaneously happy then I was eccentric- mostly because I killed the poor man. My motives are of my own personal business so if you are playing Sherlock Holmes, don't bother because you won't convict me.

"I don't plan to, I'm just here to help." Peter said nonchalantly. He leaned back into his chair.

My name, which I have yet to mention, is Jefferson Swede. I hail from New York City and was born at the turn of the century. My parents, who were English by nature, came over from that wretched place to here on December 15th, 1884. It wasn't a war or a famine that they decided to come but rather a pair of cannibals were terrorizing everyone's minds- it was almost hysteria. I say almost because I wasn't the cause of it.

My mental disorder, which I have yet to mention, is a mixture of murderous psychopathy with schizophrenia. It all stemmed from my father's "late suicide", I say late because the poor son of a bitch should've done it years before he actually did. To be fair, he was an abusive drunk and the rope was just lying on the table pre-tied in a noose for several years. No one had the courage to do it- that is, until he shot my mother in the leg with the .22 caliber rifle that hung over the mantle. If you've ever experienced fury, it's an emotion that consumes the mind and body into doing extraordinary feats of merit and divinity. I released my wrath and chocked the poor soul of fifty-four. The only downside to the deed was that it was New Year's Eve. His pulse stopped at precisely midnight. It wasn't midnight and one second- but midnight exactly.

"Interesting." Peter said, "Can you tell me on how you came here?"

I entered this idiotic institution-

"You're not a mental patient, and this is not a mental hospital." Peter replied, leaning forward a bit and noticing my red tie, red shirt and burgundy pants.

"I see your very fond of red." Peter said. "You do know that red is a stressor."

"Wasn't aware of that." I said, lying to him of course.

"Tell me then how you came here- without the insults." He said.

Fine. If you insist. I entered this _place_ on November 13th, 1942. I'm sure you are aware of current _real_ world events Mister Pevensie.

"I am." He said.

Good, then you should be aware that just last month on the twenty-third of October the British Empire launched an offensive attack on the Germans and Italians and were victorious. However, you may not be aware of the death of Mister Ralph Rainger.

"No, I wasn't." Peter replied, "How sad, I rather enjoyed his music. Did he go well?"

Yes. If you call a plane crash in the Coachella Valley a well deserved death. The poor man had a wife and children I believe. They'll receive condolences from somewhere else.

"You won't give them yourself?" Peter asked, sounding rather surprised as if he were expecting me to make his work easy for him.

No I will not send a card, money or sympathy to his family because why would I have remorse for anyone? I'm not the one who's dead on the side of a mountain.

"You are a sick human being." He said, scolding me.

You asked for the truth Mister Pevensie, I am simply giving it. I am a psychopath and I'm surprised that you expect better from me. Do you expect that I can be converted back to sanity?

"I do."

Your attempts will be for naught I'm afraid. Just and noble as they are, there is no use in transforming my mind to think anything good or decent or morale. For all intents and purposes Mister Pevensie, it might be best to label me a demon and just leave me alone to die.

"I can't do that." His determination is admirable but alas, is naive. "Besides," he said continuing, actually believing his experiment would work, "you still haven't answered my question- how did you come here?"

I came to this place on November 13th, 1942, as I've previously stated.

"Yes," Peter said, "I have the date but not the means of travel."

I travelled via horse.

"On horseback, that is very interesting. Mind telling me about it?"

Certainly. I was in Germany making my way to Poland to see if I could mow down some poor souls along the way. I knew that if I were captured by Hitler's Legion then I would be shot and I knew that if I were captured by the Allies then I would be instantly enlisted and forced to fight for a cause that I despise.

"You do not approve of the war?" Peter asked.

Of course I approve of the war! What I don't approve of is humanitarianism.

"So you're an anarchist?"

As I've said you insolent twit, you might as well label me a demon and leave me alone to die. Keeping that bit of information in mind what do you think my view is on humanitarians and their ideologies?

"I think you're mentally unstable and mentally unstable people often do not know what they say when they say it."

You ignored the question. I would like an answer please. What do you think my view is on humanitarians and their ideologies?

"I think that you have resentment towards them, you fear that goodness in the world would render your psychopathic nature obsolete."

My psychopathic nature is human nature Mister Pevensie. For everyone, including yourself has a hint of psychopathy and the will to murder inside them. You are just too lofty in your precociousness and position to see that there is nothing mentally unstable or incorrect about my thinking. For I am always, one hundred- percent of the time correct.

"Only a psychopath," he said, "would say such a thing."

Which is why this session is such a pointless waste of time. Why don't you go back home to your family, live your life and explore the world for what it is- a sad, lonely, sick place with nothing for you except to live, breathe, die and fall into the arms of Ether. You'd make an exceptional politician, a terrible instructor of history and a beautiful husband for some deadbeat whore who never went anywhere with her life. So I say again Mister Pevensie, for all intents and purposes it might be best to label me a demon and just leave me alone to die. It is a fairly simple concept that even you, a bright intelligent and contradictory person can understand. If you cannot then I suggest you admit yourself to the nearest psychiatric ward. Are we done here?

Peter turned towards me and like a defeated swine nodded and escorted himself out. I smiled, laughed and said-

Don't forget to trip on your way out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: The First PCL-R with Reepicheep**

To think that mice are sentient beings capable of intelligent conversation is a ludicrous idea. Yet, much to my dismay, the Idiots of the Choir sent one in. The Mouse came in rather nonchalantly, as if he had been through this situation before. His smile was sickeningly optimistic and his cattle rod, which I presume he believes to be a sword, was so amusing that it actually made me laugh a bit. The Mouse heard me, for he looked in my direction and took his position in the chair that Peter sat in, standing up in it of course to see me better.

"Mister Swede," he said rather sternly, apparently my laugh set his balance of poise and happy demeanor off a bit. "I am here to administer what is called a PCL-R."

The Psychopathy Checklist-Revised by Robert D. Hare.

"Precisely." The Mouse replied. "If you could please answer the questions to the best of ability and as truthfully as you can then I can begin diagnosis."

I thought only a professional therapist could give diagnosis. Considering that you are a talking rat I doubt you meet the twelve years of higher education to even call yourself a doctor of anything. To be honest, you look more like a faux representation of Carl Jung than anything else.

"I'll take the compliments and disregard the rest considering that you are mentally unstable." He said. "But be warned though," he continued, "I do not give second chances often."

Admirable position and ideals for an individual who shouldn't technically exist. Interestingly you are about to give a very personal test and you have yet to introduce yourself. Is it because you are nameless, prideful, arrogant or stupid?

"Reepicheep is my name." He said this with a hint of narcissism- it was as if he were trying to get to me, make me see that he was on the same playing field. In truth, I could tell by the look in his small but surprisingly intelligent eyes that he suffered and was most likely going to administer the same test to himself.

"Alright, let us begin. How do you interact with people?"

Usually I tend to keep to myself when in large groups. I am extremely introverted but at the same time am extremely observant. For example, I know just from our brief time already that you have suffered grief recently. You have recently lost someone close to you or to be specific, a group of people that you deeply care about and you doubt where they went in terms of the afterlife. You understand or wish to understand the meaning of life and death but cannot fully grasp it for you know full well that it is beyond your control. Yet you still hunger for the answer.

"My personal experiences will not come into play at this time Mister Swede." Reepicheep said.

Please, call me Jefferson, it's more personal.

"Alright then, Jefferson- you have said and I quote that you are 'extremely introverted but at the same time are extremely observant.' Are you like this consistently or just in groups?"

Consistently. I find that observation is part of human nature and it helps me perform my work.

"Speaking of your work," he said, "how would you describe your profession in terms of how it contributes to society?"

Murderous psychopathy is a noble and honorable profession. It requires an understanding of the habitual nature of people- their comings and goings, as well as the mind and how it perceives thought and emotion. Sometimes the best psychopaths are psychologists because they understand what they are doing and can put rationale thinking to so called "lunacy and absurd reasoning". In short, I see my job as a contributor to society because I force people to think about their lives, about their own role in society. I am a Robin Hood among a sea of Sheriffs, Reepicheep. Even you, a simple rodent must be able to comprehend that.

"I do," Reepicheep answered, "very much indeed."

Which is why I told Mister Pevensie, everyone is capable of murderous psychopathy, he's just too lofty in his preciousness and position to see past the Lighted Veil. You are very different in the mind Reepicheep, you could be very persuasive in changing their opinions of me.

"I am only here to administer an exam," Reepicheep said, looking at me as if he possessed some sort of power, which was in truth, laughable. "now if you don't mind- how do you feel about yourself?"

I find myself extremely likable, intelligent and highly sophisticated.

"Are you being egotistical or are you telling the truth?" The Mouse asked.

Both.

"Do you suffer from the phenomena known as pseudologia fantasica, otherwise known as compulsive lying?"

I am the definition of pseudologia fantasica, for that is my name- as I'm sure you are aware of this statement by now, you might as well label me a demon and leave me alone to die.

"You said that as if it were supposed to mean something." He said.

It means everything. It is the defining chapter of my life, the only being and recognition I have left in the world. It is the very thing that keeps me alive, keeps me going. I understand that I am to die, and I understand that I am to be tortured for the crimes of my father. I also understand that if I do anything benevolent then I am to be "Death's Minion" which is, to be technical, an insult of the highest caliber.

"I've always assumed Death to be a veil creature."

Nonsense, he is the most benevolent demon in the universe. He is often called The Angel That No One Wants Around.

"Amusing. Do you find yourself being a puppeteer?"

You mean, do I use people to my own advantage?

"Yes, if you want to go simple."

My dear fellow, I am the Grand Puppeteer! I have shaped politics, started wars, defeated men and lifted up the evil of mankind. How do you think Death is employed so often? It's because of me and my doing. I am the Father of Destruction, the Master of Hell, the Damned River Styx. Some call me Lucifer, some call me Beelzebub, in truth I am both and have deceived the world into thinking that I don't exist. The Idiots of the Choir are too blind to see who they are interrogating. I hope you are not.

"So you are, pardon the pun, the literal Beelzebub of the situation then?" Reepicheep asked.

Yes, and do not pardon the pun, I rather like it. I think I may use it.

"Do you ever feel guilt?"

Never. Guilt is a human emotion and human emotion is something that I am incapable of truly comprehending. I can mimic it all I want to- but if I were to be completely honest with you, I cannot feel guilt, love or grief. Ironically, I can feel pain and misery, I guess those are what some people call Demonic Attributes.

"There is no such thing as Demonic Attributes, only Vices and Virtues." He said, rather reassuringly. It was as if he wanted to save my soul, poor fellow. He does not understand that I am bound forever in a state of fire and malice. I guess shows his human sentience- his misunderstanding of pagan and sacrilegious practices and his even greater misunderstanding of divine consequences for those who do said practices.

"Would you generally describe yourself as emotional?" He asked.

What a very simple question to answer. I am generally calm and collective but there are times, such as these, when my time is wasted, that get me peeved. What is the point of this session Mouse, you and your cohorts are aware that I am a psychopath already.

"Just taking formalities," Reepicheep said, "we want to be sure of things. The last thing we want to do is convict someone who isn't deserving of it."

I can tell you right now that I am deserving of it but nevertheless you will not convict me.

"Why is that?"

Because you simpleton, I can manipulate the human mind into whatever I want it to do. I could literally kill you with a fingernail. The problem of the matter is that I killed a man and you believe me to be mentally insane- which I most certainly am- but what you fail to realize and comprehend is that I am a demon, an evil entity, something that isn't necessarily welcome in good well mannered circles.

"Then if you are unwelcomed here then why bother to show up?" Reepicheep asked. "I mean if you are what you say you are then logically speaking you would be dead for no one who speaks of evil can walk through the halls. So why take the risk?"

If I told you that I wanted to change, would you believe me?

"Considering you've just stated that you are compulsive liar, no."

Good, keep believing me in that sense, because I am the one person in the entire universe that cannot be trusted with benevolence. The only real thing of merit that you can count on with me is that I will at some point die.

Reepicheep turned towards me as if he were seriously concerned. I knew just as well as he did that he didn't really, he just wanted to ease whatever contradictions my brain was currently having.

"Have you ever contemplated or attempted suicide before?"

If I were to say yes, would you believe me?

"Yes."

Then you have all the information you need. Do you have any more questions for me or are we done here?

"I have more questions but they can wait, for now, I believe you can be allotted fifteen minutes for lunch."

With that Reepicheep left. He didn't speak, he didn't look in my direction- he just stared at the floor as he walked. It was as if pity had overtaken him. It seems that my device of sympathy is working for my sob story made him forget one thing- I'm a compulsive liar. **  
**

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**Author's Note: **

A PCL-R (Psychopathy Checklist- Revised) is a psychopathy test. **Most** of the questions that Reepicheep asked were real questions that were given and **most** of the answers that Jefferson gave were real answers that were given.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: The First Interview with Caspian**

The first words this naïve simpleton asked me were, "How was lunch?"

Fine, it wasn't spectacular, but it was suitable for me.

He pulled back his hair, which was long and rather feminine in nature. To be honest, his entire face was. Perfect skin, perfect eyes, and the perfect smile every regent of the realm ought to carry. I was about three seconds from throwing up all over the floor at the sight of this wretched creature. Oh, don't get me wrong, he was presentable and extremely honest and such, he was just so detestably neat. The only normal thing about him was that he didn't dress pompously. So far, Peter had the disposition of a lawyer, the Mouse that of an astute (but easily deceivable) therapist and then there's this fellow, who came off as a simple man who was secretly a perfectionist.

"Good," he said, taking the empty chair and smiling at me the best he could.

It wasn't difficult to see that he didn't necessarily want to be in this situation with me. Either he knew who (or more important what) I was, exactly what I did to get me in this situation, or simply the facts that were already acquired previously and 'the new ones' that Reepicheep so stupidly fell for. One, I'm a psychopath. Two, I murdered an innocent man. Three, I'm a demon. Three very simple things that aren't that hard to comprehend yet these Idiots of the Choir insist on making it an investigation. It's not like I killed any of _them_. The poor soul was, as previously stated, a mutually hated resident of the Bronx. So the question I proposed was-

Why do you care so much about an innocent life being murdered- one that you have never seen, met or have ever come into contact before?

"An innocent life is a life." He replied. "Also, you showed up laughing, cursing, screaming and gallivanting like a drunken idiot."

Happiness for a demon is very drunk. It's not pleasant because you cannot control yourself- if you fall on a rock, you bleed. If you look at the sun, you burn. There is no solace in this world- only under earth and in shade can I be invincible. You also forgot to mention that I was conversing with someone, someone extremely important to the operation of World Domination.

"Who was he?" He asked.

What a stupid and obvious question. It was like he wasn't even trying to think.

"The puppet of course! If I am the Great Puppeteer then who is the puppet?" I asked.

He gave no answer, either he sincerely didn't know it or he was that much of a dolt. I rolled my eyes. "Do you know nothing of current affairs?"

"Affairs of here, yes, but nothing of human world. You would have to get Peter, Edmund or Lucy to converse about that. Now back to the session," he said, "this man, this Nathaniel, why did you kill him?"

Why does anyone do anything anymore? Why do you breathe? Why do you eat? Sleep? Comprehend literature? Compose music? It's a natural thing to do. Those who live breathe, eat and sleep and those who are musically inclined compose symphonies of grander and sophistication. So ask me that question again. I dare you, I tell you, you shall get the same answer. Why does anyone do anything anymore? Because they very well can you simple moron!

Caspian smiled, either he was insulted or amused. I could tell which, it was obviously a bit of both, but I let my conscious play a game with myself and let his smile continue on in silence for several minutes.

"What did Nathaniel do to you?" He asked after ten minutes of smiling.

He did nothing. That's the joy in it. That's the nature in it. The fact that he was completely innocent of me is the reason why I did it! There! I gave myself away, I confessed, I presented to you what you wanted. I am a jealous person who wants the entire world to know my name, hear my voice and tremble at the sight of me! I also want you to die because you are sir, the most moronic, idiotic, stupid looking person I have ever met in my entire life. You are obviously a naïve push over who believe full heartedly that they are the supreme egotistical ruler of the universe. Well congratulations! You have succeeded in being Baal. You have convinced the world that you are the center of the universe and just like the Babylonians; your people shall fall and die with the Fires of Israel. Or, in layman's terms, you are a terrible leader who deserves to be beheaded.

"So in other words you believe I am incompetent in my position?" Caspian asked.

Well of course you are! I shouted.

Look at you, a King should not be dressed simply, but regally. He should carry himself dutifully to the course of success. You are the essence of failure! No wonder you wanted this position so badly, you wanted the perks because it's the only position in this god-forsaken place that actually lets you live! You have absolute rule but you don't use it, you have underprivileged people but do not privilege them, I mean a Mouse as a Page, how ridiculous and preposterous a thing. Are you running a zoo or a country sir? Are you running a government or an anarchical democracy?

As I ranted on, Caspian just stared and pretended to look interested. At least, that was my initial thought.

"For the record," he said, leaning in his chair, "Reepicheep is not preposterous but pompous. There is a difference- one that I'll admit to, for frankly, he can be quite overbearing but he means well. He _is_ a therapist after all."

I huffed at this.

"As far as my running of things, have you properly assessed and observed the details, the funds of my administration?" He asked. "Have you taken polls, surveys and collected data like any sociologist or psychologist (which is what you call yourself so I hear) would do? Or are you making idiotic and malice filled assumptions because you have nothing better to say or do?"

To use the phrase "Damn, you just got served" would be an understatement here. I was cooked, fried and consumed.

What do you want sir? I asked.

"Simple," he said, "the reason as to why you killed an innocent man. The _real_ reason please, for Reepicheep tells me that you are compulsive liar."

He speaks true of me. How do you know what I'm about to say will be true or not then? If that is the case then you have no choice but to except everything or nothing as true. Either way, I will still be interviewed and interrogated by you people, which I find so detestably annoying.

"If you find us so detestably annoying," Caspian said, "then why even bother complying? If you are what you say you are then why do all of this?"

Reputation and recognition sir, that's what this is about. I personally could care two shits about an innocent man being killed by me, I kill innocent man all the damn time. Why does this one particular person matter to you?

"It matters because it matters to Edmund," Caspian said, "if you wish to speak to him about this I can send him in."

That would be preferable. So to be clear, nothing came of this session?

"Yes," Caspian said, "something did come of this. The fact that you hate me is quiet clear."

He stood and exited with a smile on his face. As he walked through the door he turned towards me and said, "The feeling is mutual."

I laughed to myself.

So he's intelligent _and_ a jackass? I thought.

That's hilarious. Sickeningly hilarious.


End file.
